


whisper my last goodbyes

by orphanghost



Category: Ravenswood (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, Incest, Multi, Necrophilia, POV Second Person, Threesomes where two of the people don't realise its a threesome, To the tune of Girlfriend in a Coma: handjobs in a mortuary, Voyeurism, embalming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphanghost/pseuds/orphanghost
Summary: When your uncle rejected you it felt like being plunged into cold, icy water, choking from the inside and holding words in your throat like the water filling your lungs, silencing you forever.
Relationships: Caleb Rivers/Raymond Collins, Miranda Collins/Caleb Rivers/Raymond Collins
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	whisper my last goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever come seven years late to a cancelled show that only got one half-season, watch three episodes and write incestuous necrophilia porn?

When you got on that bus to Ravenswood, all you wanted was to connect with your family. Feel that sense of belonging. When your uncle rejected you it felt like being plunged into cold, icy water, choking from the inside and holding words in your throat like the water filling your lungs, silencing you forever. 

Now you can’t connect with anything. There were things you didn’t know you’d miss about being alive until you weren’t. Things like being able to fall back on your bed and land with a thump and an exhalation of breath. Like taking ten minutes to unlace your boots and pull them off to throw them in the corner of a room. Like opening a door and knowing that stepping through would take you reliably to the room you’re looking at. Like knowing that morning is followed by afternoon, then evening, then night, and then they’ll start over again, one after another. 

Sequence, time, space, touch. These things don’t exist for you anymore. The only tether is the boy from the bus. He’s the one who gets to enjoy these little pleasures now, and you can only live vicariously through him. 

The way your life goes — _went_, gotta remember to use past tense now — those little pleasures became precious to you. And you learned that you couldn’t be afraid to take them, because if you didn’t, no one would think to throw the scraps your way. Caleb eats the way you did, quickly and hungrily because he doesn’t know where the next meal will come from. He sleeps like you did, shoes on and lying on top of the blankets, ready to move. And he fucks like you did, like it is a way to keep going. 

He can’t always see you. You can’t always see him either: sometimes you are stuck in the between places, stuck falling in the dark and listening to the whispers. But sometimes you can see him, and he doesn’t know you’re there. 

The bathtub in the guest house where Caleb has taken up residence isn’t quite as deep as the one in the main house, although it might be marginally less deadly. He seems cautious as he stands next to it, shirt off and jeans unbuttoned so that they sit low around his hips. The water is almost deafening as it rushes out of the faucet, splashing all over the porcelain of the tub as it slowly fills. 

You watch as he takes down the shower curtain around the tub and throws it in the corner of the room. You watch him push down his jeans and step out of them. You think: I shouldn’t be watching this. 

‘Hey, Caleb, maybe you should—’ you start. He doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t see you. He steps over the rim of the tub slowly, toes touching hot water.

Then he is submerged. Time passes in a blink, pasted together like scraps in a diary collage. Shoulder-deep in the bath, head tilted back, damp hair clinging to his cheeks, lips parted, hand on his cock. He's alone — thinks he's alone — and so he isn't shy about noises. Maybe he wouldn't be shy anyway, he doesn't strike you as the shy type. When he comes in the water he lets out a groan that warms through you, makes you tremor on the cusp of something, like if you had a heart it would be racing. Like you're this much closer to being alive. 

And then the bathtub is empty, and the water is draining out, spiralling down the drain and turning blood red in the rust. 

Your uncle visits Caleb sometimes to ask him to do something around the house. Cut the hedges, trim the lawn, have a meal. The way Raymond looks at Caleb… it stings. He barely looked at you at all, and yet his gaze lingers on Caleb like yours does, drinking him in like wine. It's not fair. 

You snap at him from the shadows. 'Oh you have time for _him.'_

This is one of the times Caleb can't hear you and doesn't know you're there. He looks at your uncle like he doesn't trust him, but the look lasts a long moment. Raymond looks back like Caleb doesn't belong. And the look lingers. 

Another torn edge like a missing page, and the next thing you know it is dark outside and rain is lashing on the windows, making the room shudder. For a moment you think they're fighting and you instinctively lunge forward to seperate them. Instead your hand doesn't connect — to anything — and you realise that Raymond's fist curled in the collar of Caleb's shirt isn't unwelcome, and that Caleb's hands on your uncle's chest aren't hitting or pushing, but pulling closer. 

It is half messy, half restrained. Caleb is grabbing for more, tearing at clothes, his lips on your uncle's neck. Your uncle is clenching his teeth, bringing his hand up to slow Caleb down by putting his hand on his throat. Not choking him; just asserting control and turning Caleb's head so that their lips can meet in a partial, hungry kiss. 

'Miranda,' Caleb says, and for a moment you think he's noticed you. But no. He's just thinking about you, wondering what you'd think about him doing this with your uncle. Warning him that maybe they should stop. 

'Don't think about Miranda.' 

Fury sparks within you. He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to fuck your friend and tell him not to consider you at all. Not when he left you alone, not when he turned you away. Not when the only time he treated you lovingly was when he embalmed your naked body. You felt that, somehow, like you might feel sensation on a phantom limb. His steady fingers on your cold skin, painting life into your lifeless lips, sculpting serenity into your angry hands. The care with which he did it, the embalming fluid running through you like blood racing, the way he caressed your corpse methodologically, but with intimate care. 

You step closer to them, closer to Caleb, and you stare into your uncle's eyes from beside your friend. 'Don't ever stop thinking about how you failed me,' you tell him. He leans forward, lips coming closer — until they pass over yours by a hair's breadth to meet Caleb's. 

You reel back and you're in a dark corridor. You turn, and you're in the morgue below the house, staring at the last place your body lay before it found its final home in a hardwood coffin. Except now someone else is on it. 

Caleb is naked on the cool surface, your uncle standing over him with black gloves on his hands, keeping things clinical. His hand is on Caleb's cock, pulling and twisting, slippery with lube, and his eyes are intense on Caleb's tensing body. When he pushes his hips up, Raymond slows his grip, drawing things out. When Caleb relaxes, Raymond goes faster, maintaining a vicious cycle of crests and lows that has Caleb sweating, swearing, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pulls in breath. 

You think that your uncle has an unusually intimate way of interacting with this place. 

'Fuck,' Caleb gets out, and he sounds wrecked, close to the edge. 

You move closer. 'Let him give you this,' you tell Caleb. 

You can't touch. You can't feel. But he can. 

'He owes us this,' you say. 'Doesn't it feel good, Caleb?' 

It does, it clearly does. You can almost feel it yourself, watching the way pleasure animates his body, gives it life. He grabs your uncle's shirt with one hand, pulling him closer so that he can claw at him as he gets closer to coming. Raymond leans down to meet him halfway.

'I want you to feel this,' you continue, your voice raw. 'For me. Caleb, I need this. I need to feel it too.' 

Almost like he can hear you, he does. He spills over Raymond's hand and moans a low noise into his mouth, fingers tensing in his hair. Raymond swallows the sound hungrily, accepting it without reservation. 

You can't connect, not anymore — but Caleb can do it for you.


End file.
